Security Blanket

Just in time for Valentine's Day! A really sappy post!

I lived on the fourth floor in my old building. As a result of the scientific fact that heat rises, it was always uncomfortably warm in the apartment. I still recall a winter where the snow piled up on the balcony and the temperatures plummeted to record lows, yet I had windows cracked for much of January and February. I would bundle layer upon layer around myself when I went outside, but inside it was downright tropical. I would lounge around the house barefooted in a tank top, watching reports of school closings and brutal wind chills.

As a result of this, I've not had a comforter on my bed for some time. When I bought my futon, I simply made do with a loose weave thermal blanket. I didn't need anything more.

This changed when I moved to my new apartment and the temperatures dropped considerably in late January. It's not that the new apartment is cold per se, but the numerous windows in the place make it a bit drafty at times. Now I find myself constantly wearing the striking ensemble of a fuzzy powder blue bathrobe and rainbow striped Powerpuff Girls slipper socks. Classy, no, but only the cats get to see me like that, and they don't point and laugh at me. Well, not much.

The other night, I finally threw in the towel and graduated to something thicker than the thermal blanket. After shivering under the thin covers for a few minutes, I stumbled into the dining room and opened up the closet to retrieve the Ugliest Comforter in the World from the top shelf.

The Ugliest Comforter in the World does not exactly belong to me. Technically it belongs to Roger Mexico, but after three and a half years I don't think he's all that concerned about getting it back. He was working for the cruise line over that summer, and had asked me to store it for him, along with some camping gear, the god chair, and his cat. I happily obliged; I was still giddy in my feelings towards him, and thrilled that he hadn't moved to Albany after all. Even though he would be even farther away that summer than he would have been in New York, I didn't mind. He would be coming back. He had to - I had his stuff.

The comforter was thick and quilted and light brown with a leopard print on one side, the reverse side being a zebra print bordered by the leopard spots. It screamed "single man." (For some unexplainable reason, it seems to be a rule of thumb that women wear animal prints and men decorate their homes with them. There is seldom any crossover. Don't ask me why.)

Over the summer, the Ugliest Comforter in the World got buried beneath dirty clothes and squabbling cats, forgotten in the hazy warmth of July. Upon his return (and almost immediate departure), Roger Mexico left it behind. He simply took his cat and left. Weeks later, when I returned the other things that had been left behind at my apartment, the comforter slipped my mind. I didn't even realize I had it until that winter. By that point, we had patched things up and settled into a different phase of our friendship. I wasn't sure how to even tell him I still had it without feeling like an idiot.

I finally decided not to say anything. He didn't seem to miss it, and anyway he had a new bed and the Ugliest Comforter in the World was the wrong size. I stuck it into my closet and forgot about it. Until a few weeks ago.

The comforter technically doesn't fit my bed either (it's a twin and the futon is a full), but as a blanket to keep one person warm, it serves its purpose. It still feels strange falling asleep under the thick quilting around my shoulders. It's a feeling that I associate with his bed, not mine. It still feels slightly foreign, but reassuring.

Over the last few nights, the Ugliest Comforter in the World has kept out the chill of February that seeps through the windows. It reminds me of helping him pack for his brief move to Albany, staying up and taping boxes shut until four in the morning, when exhaustion set in and we collapsed for the evening. He had already given his mattress and boxspring away (it didn't fit in the U-Haul), so every blanket and pillow in the house piled one atop the other served as bedding for the night. Somewhere in the pile - the Ugliest Comforter in the World. For several nights I fell asleep next to him, too tired to do anything else, overjoyed that I had met someone so wonderful, but dreading saying goodbye. (I relive that moment every time a visit with him draws to an end. It doesn't get any easier.)

And even though it's been in my closet all this time, the Ugliest Comforter in the World seems to have retained some part of him. Memories of late Sunday nights texting each other during ER and The X Files. Phone calls from Puerto Rico and Miami, while his ship was in port. Late nights curled up on his couch, watching whatever movie I'd grabbed from my video library. Conversations about movies, music, politics, ethics, everything and nothing, fueled by coffee, beer, wine, whatever our substance of choice was that evening. Listening to his internal symphony at its genesis, losing myself in the music that wrapped itself seductivley around my brain. Empty promises of breakfast at Proud Rooster. The reassuring even sound of his breathing as he drifted off to sleep, while the sun began to peek through the blinds. The warmth of his skin against mine, the feeling that - if only for that moment - everything was right with the world. The Ugliest Comforter in the World holds these memories, and envelops me in them at night. It serves as protection from the not-as-happy times, times when everything seemed to be crumbling around me and he was the only thing that kept me from losing myself completely. The shame of having him see me like that, grasping frantically at my sanity, terrified that he would decide to stop wasting his time dealing with me. I huddle beneath the Comforter, reminded and amazed and thankful that he never did make that decision, and that made the impossible bearable.

And on nights when the distance between us seems infinite, when our next meeting is faraway and uncertain, when late-night phone conversations only reinforce how far away 496 miles really is, the Ugliest Comforter in the World brings him closer. It serves as a physical reminder that I still carry part of him within me, deep within my heart and mind, never farther away than a thought. Time and space cease to have meaning. It is now, it is here, and the spirit of my friend is with me, whispering soundlessly in my ear.

Comforter. Such an appropriate name. So much better than duvet or bedspread or eiderdown.

It may be in my possession now. It may be spread across my bed. He may have forgotten it ever existed. But the Ugliest Comforter in the World is still his. I only hope I never have to give it back.